


something you can have and hold

by dickviolin



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Come Eating, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Handcuffs, M/M, Oral Sex, Paddling, Porn with Feelings, Punishment, Smut, Spanking, Subdrop, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: stan knows what benoît needs and how to give ittwitter





	something you can have and hold

Benoît comes to him in the early hours, when the moon is high and all is quiet. He knocks softly. When Stan doesn’t respond, he knocks a little louder, then a little louder, and finally calls out, “Stan?”. His voice cracks and Stan can barely stand it.

He gets up and pads over to the door. Cracks it open, leaves it on the latch.

“You woke me up,” he says, every time.

“Sorry.” Every time, Benoît isn’t sorry in the slightest. His eyes are ringed with pink and his hair is messy. He’s still in his kit. Stan is just in pyjama bottoms, nothing else.

“Come in.”

He undoes the latch. Ben steps in and sinks immediately into his arms.

“Oh, chéri,” Stan croons. “My darling boy.”

He’d watched the match from the locker room. It was, as Andy Murray, who was also there, nursing his knee and looking murderous, put it, a shiter. Benoît lost in straight sets to some plus-100 German or Austrian or Peruvian. In a match that lasted a little under two hours he’d smashed no fewer than four racquets into smithereens, kicked a water bottle at a line judge and called the umpire a ‘fucking connard’, which Stan reckoned was a creative combination of languages if nothing else.

“Do you know what the fine is yet?” Stan says into his ear.

Ben groans. “Tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow, chéri.”

“Today then. fuck.” He looks up with those sad-soaked eyes and fixes Stan with a pleading look.

Stan kisses him then, because he can’t resist it. Benoît is simply too beautiful to not be kissed, and every second he doesn’t have Stan’s lips on his body is a crying shame.

“My darling boy,” he repeats. “Do you want-”

“Yes.” A choked-off cry. Ben bucks his hips against Stan’s so Stan can feel how he’s already hard.

“You remember the-”

“Red.” Stan is nothing if not thorough, even if he can feel Benoît’s impatience. He has to, though, for his own conscience, hear Ben say the safeword.

“Good.” He strokes Ben’s hair once, twice, then pulls back and frames his face in his hands.

“You’ve been naughty today, haven’t you?”

“Hmm,” Ben keens against the touch. He’s like a cat, sometimes, curling into Stan’s hand.

“You were a very bad boy. Tell me what you did, baby.”

“Smashed a racquet.”

“Hmmm?”

“Smashed four racquets. Kicked a water bottle at a line judge. Swore at the umpire.”

Stan whooshes in a breath and takes Ben firmly by the chin. He can force the eye contact like that. Ben’s eyes are blown-black dilated. It still, months in, sends Stan wild. The power, knowing he can _do that_ to Ben.

“I’m very disappointed in you, baby. I know you can behave better than that.”

Ben lets out a low whine as Stan snakes a hand round his waist. “How do you think that line judge feels, hm? And the umpire? What sort of an example is that to set? Did you think about the kids who might have been watching?”

“No,” Ben says in a small voice. “Wasn’t thinking at all.”

“You’ve been very naughty,” Stan says again. “And what happens to naughty boys?”

Ben swallows and Stan can see his Adam’s apple bob. “They get punished.”

“They do. Ask for it, baby. Ask to be punished.”

“Please,” he gasps. “Please punish me. I know I deserve it.”

“Please who?” Stan says, tightens his grip, feels the hair stand up on the back of his arms.

“Please, daddy,” Ben says, and it goes straight to both of their dicks. Stan lets out a low rumble in his chest and releases Ben, pushing him back just a little.

“Strip for me, baby.”

“Yes, daddy.”

Benoît always makes a show of it, pulling his polo shirt over his head slowly to reveal that thatch of dark hair on his stomach and chest. Then kicking his shoes off and his socks with them. And then finally shimmying out of his shorts and boxers and standing there, brazen, naked and waiting for Stan.

“You’re already hard, baby,” Stan says, giving Ben’s cock a quick tug, feeling the warm drool of precum on the palm of his hand.

“Hard for you, daddy,” Ben says. “Want you to fuck me after.”

Without warning, Stan brings the back of his hand against Ben’s cheek, a hard slap that rings hollow in the airless hotel room. Ben looks down, looks up. Stan tries to ignore how his cock is twitching and spilling even more precum.

“You don’t swear, and you don’t get to ask for things like that. If I’m kind enough to do anything when I’m done with you, it won’t be because you’ve asked. do you understand?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good boy.” Stan rubs a thumb over Ben’s cheek, then pecks a kiss there for good measure.

“Are you gonna bend over for me? Like a good boy?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Over the desk, baby. Arms out in front of you.”

Ben spots it as he walks over to the desk by the wardrobe. There’s a metal frame holding the TV up, sturdy enough by far to withstand a grown man attached to it, pulling on it. Stan has come prepared. He always does. In a compartment he had sewn into his suitcase he’s hidden the handcuffs and the paddle, and now his blood pulses as he goes to retrieve them. When they’re at home, Benoît gets to pick from Stan’s comprehensive collection. On tour, limitations of space mean it is Stan who chooses, and he always goes for the one he knows hurts the most to put into his case.

He loves the weight of it in his hands. He loves the trust and the responsibility that’s implicit. He loves the sight before him, his boyfriend, normally so strong, so confident, so cocksure and proud, reduced to a crying, shivering, begging wreck.

“You were bad today,” he says softly. He places the paddle next to where Ben has his head resting on the desk, so it’s in his line of sight. He takes his right hand and raises it up to cuff it in one smooth movement to the frame. Ben’s now trapped in an awkward position, one hand steadying himself on the desk and the other up above him. Stan can feel how uncomfortable it must be.

“I know, daddy,” Ben whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“You can be as sorry as you like,” Stan says, and runs his hands over Benoît’s back. “But you still need to be punished, hm?”

“Please, daddy,” Ben begs. It catches as a sob in his throat. Stan has to take one hand away to squeeze at the aching tent in the front of his sweats. The sound of it, the vulnerability: it sends a shiver down his spine every time.

“Fifteen,” Stan intones. “And you will count every one, understand?”

“Yes, daddy.”

He takes the paddle in his right hand. He takes a deep breath, and a final look at Ben. Runs his free hand over his back once more, a final brush of his fingertips. The touch is electric and Ben is already shaking.

“Please, daddy,” he whines, and that’s all Stan needs. With well-practised motion, he smacks him, hard leather on skin. Ben gasps, high and surprised.

“Baby,” Stan whispers.

“_Un_,” Ben replies. His voice is already _broken_, ragged.

“Good boy. Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Benoît doesn’t respond except with a pleading cry.

Another one, another loud, flat sound.

“_Deux_,” Ben says. Stan has to pause, look at the ceiling, count to five in his head. Then, three more in quick succession, _trois, quatre, cinq_. Stan lays the paddle down and takes a moment to massage the red-raw skin of Ben’s asscheeks.

“Talk to me, baby.” He leans over to whisper into the shell of Ben’s ear, rubs a possessive thumb over one of his tattoos.

“Hurts, daddy,” he whines.

“I know, baby,” Stan says. “You’re doing so well. Ready for more?”

“Please, daddy.”

“Good boy.”

He picks the paddle back up and then it’s five more, no gap in between, just enough time for Benoît to stutter out the numbers.

“So good for me,” Stan says into the silence that follows. “Not long to go.”

Ben lets out a little sigh. Maybe it’s relief, maybe it’s regret. Stan doesn’t care to ask, just goes back in.

“_Onze_.”

Stan can feel his dick throb.

“_Douze_.”

He loves this boy, loves him so much.

“_Treize_\- ahh, ah- _quatorze_.”

“Last one, my darling,” he murmurs. He draws his arm all the way back. He can hear the TV frame creak as Ben shifts in anticipation.

“_Quinze_,” Ben finishes as Stan brings the paddle down with one final strike, putting all his might into it. He drops it down on the table when he’s done.

“Baby…”

“_Please_,” Ben gasps. “Touch me, _please_.”

Stan slides a hand round his waist, through the hair on his stomach, down to his dick. It’s achingly hard; there’s a steady drip of precum pooling on the table. He runs his thumb over the sensitive head. Ben’s whole body shivers. The noises he’s making are high-pitched and light. Stan always wonders where that comes from. Where the deep chest-rumbling yells go when he’s in this space.

“On your knees for me, baby,” Stan says. “You know I go first.”

“Yes, daddy,” Ben sighs, and drops obediently to the floor. He takes Stan’s cock from the confines of his sweats (there is, Stan notices with a blush, a wet spot where he’s been leaking precum as well). He swallows it greedily.

“_Putain_,” Stan spits. “Baby, you’re so good. Such a good-”

He’s cut off by Ben getting to work, cupping his balls in one hand wrapping the other round the base to jerk him as he sucks him.

“You’re such a naughty boy,” Stan says, and then yelps again as Ben does that thing with his tongue, where he flicks it along the slit.

“I’m yours,” Ben says, “All yours, daddy.” He goes back down, head bobbing back and forth. It’s too much- Stan yanks him off with fingers twisted in his hair. He holds him back, neck craned so the eye contact is forced.

“I’m gonna-” Ben shuts his eyes like he’s falling asleep, blissful, and Stan loses it, letting go with an elongated groan. He shoots a lot, heavy ropes of cum on Ben’s face. It slides down into his beard; Ben darts his tongue out to catch as much as he can. Stan jerks himself slower, squeezing every last drop out of the end of his dick.

“Clean me up, baby,” he says with a sigh, and Ben takes his hand to lick. He’s thorough. Stan wipes on the side of his sweats. “You love daddy’s cum, don’t you, baby?”

Benoît just nods and nuzzles his head into Stan’s thigh as he tucks himself away.

“Stand up, baby, it’s your turn.”

“Won’t last long, daddy,” he mutters, but presents himself for Stan to take. He’s right, it only takes a couple of loose, careless strokes for him to be spitting wet warmth. Some of it hits Stan’s stomach but most of it lands on the carpet or over Ben’s hand. He licks himself clean with the same enthusiasm. _Little weirdo_, he thinks with affection.

Stan steers him onto the bed where he collapses. Ben curls up, knees to his chest, still breathing so heavily, and Stan pulls the sheets around him. He hands him his shirt, sweaty and gross from the match, to wipe his face on. Then he climbs into bed next to him and pulls him close, wrapping himself round him, a cocoon. Stan’s hand goes to Benoît’s hair to stroke it.

“You did so well for me, baby,” Stan whispers. “All done, now.”

When Ben starts to cry, it’s in silence. The only way Stan can even tell is the hot tears falling on his chest as Ben burrows in, and the way his breathing goes ragged.

“Shh, _chéri_,” Stan soothes, “It’s all right. You can relax now.”

He knows what Ben needs when he’s like this, when his head is in this place. He needs to be held, needs to feel protected, insulated. He needs _Stan_. The thought of it makes Stan’s heart swell. The knowledge that no other man can give what he gives.

“I love you,” Ben murmurs into his chest.

“I love you too, little one,” Stan replies. He pulls Ben in even closer, wants every inch of their skin to be touching. He’s not used to it, not yet. It’s only been a matter of weeks since Ben first gasped _je t’aime_\- not during sex, which was how Stan had always predicted it would be, but walking through the streets of Geneva in the early morning, Benoît shivering, and Stan covering him with his jacket without Ben saying a word. He’s known it like a childhood prayer since Ben’s hand first touched his, that first zap of electricity between them. But saying it aloud is a line he’s still wary to cross. _I love you_ means opening a wound and trusting the other person won’t stick the knife in deeper. But from Ben, _I love you_ means trust. It means nights like this, when Ben isn’t afraid to ask for what he needs and Stan isn’t afraid to give it to him.

In the morning, Benoît will wake first. Stan will wake soon after, stirred by the sound of his boyfriend stretching and yawning.

“Morning,” he’ll say, and after kissing hello and stumbling to their feet and a glass of orange juice and a piss and a shave and all the other first-things-first, Stan will say-

“Do you ever think-”

“We’re weird?” Ben will finish, because he knows the conversation almost by heart by now. “No. We’re not weird. We’re us.”

Stan will wrap his arms round him and rest his chin on his shoulder and press into his back. Life is so often complicated, but when the sun rises, and Ben is still wrapped around him, some things will be sweet and simple.


End file.
